I, Land in the Sun
I have my own monasteries
where the cutiepies come to play;
where all your stereotypes about homosexuals can be hung out to dry.
Where a gay Kristang body
can finally lie flat, down in the grass, and breathe in
the day,
and night,
and the unlight-polluted sky
saying
Merlionsman of the Dawn:
your work is not yet done.
And I know.
There are those who still make gay
into such a bad name.
There are those so good at failing to understand
that a creole/indigenous man-woman is not someone who you disdain
as sailing
across the wrong lakes and rivers. Some
people still implicitly beg
to disagree.
I reject your non-functional
notions of non-binary
thinking, and I repeat
that I am very, very, very shame-free.
That I think very little of your attempts
to stereotype me as less than full, purposeful, complete and utterly beautiful rationality.
Let the stars down,
and all the resplendent suns come out.
Let the music play.
Let dreams and reality find common ground:
I am waiting only for sea and sky
to reveal something even more profound
than I,
the man,
the lion,
the tiger that they know, at last,
protects all of this hallowed Earth
without making anything even barely approximating
a single, whispering sound.